


Even If You Slip Away

by knightlyss



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, also bellamy likes to curse, because I felt like it, cameo if you squint, definitely a just like heaven au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-10 23:48:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7013521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightlyss/pseuds/knightlyss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do you feel dead?” he asks finally, flinching at how wrong those words feel in his mouth. Who asks that?</p>
<p>“I don't think so,” she says with a frown, looking down at herself as if to check if she's transparent or otherwise notably dead. He feels positively horrible at this point for being the bearer of such bad news, but in his defense, how was he supposed to know that the apartment for sale was owned by someone who didn't now they had died?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even If You Slip Away

 

 

He's suspicious at having struck gold so early on in his apartment search.

 

First of, said apartment comes with two bedrooms, a spacious kitchen/living room, _actual hardwood floors_ , and a frankly ridiculous monster of a bathroom. He's surprised there wasn't a door man there to welcome him to the building in the first place. Secondly, the apartment is under priced. Like, seriously under priced. He'd seen the ad in the paper and assumed the worst, judging the numbers staring back at him to belong to some dingy excuse for a shack with a roof, and had proceeded to watch open mouthed as he was led around the premises, feeling like some sort of joke. There was no way he could afford this home.

 

Astonishingly, he is informed by the landlady, a woman with a tight and closed off face, that the pricing was exactly right, and that he shouldn't worry because everything was in working order. Most of the furniture from the previous tenant is still left, a couch, TV and a bed among other things, the place is practically fully furnished, but he's still curious.

 

“She died,” the woman explains then, and he tries to fight off a blush. Of course they'd knock the price down if someone had died here. He knew it was too good to be true.

 

“I'm sorry.”

 

“Don't be. She was a good person, but she's gone, and this place needs to be used instead of collecting dust.”

 

He nods, taking another look around the room, trying to be inconspicuous in his search for telltale signs of death. Did she die in the kitchen? Was she cornered by a burglar in the night or murdered in her bedroom?

 

He tries to shake off the dark thoughts, turning his attention back to the woman. She's smirking.

 

“I'll take it,” he hears himself say, and the smirk grows.

 

 

~*~

 

 

He's decided to get off of Miller's couch as quickly as possible, so he spends his first night at the apartment, sleeping on the previous owner's couch in the living room. He's sure the bed in the bedroom is perfectly fine, but he's still not exactly comfortable with the fact that someone had died here. For all he knows, she could have been stabbed in her sleep due to a faulty window, so he checks every lock and latch he can lay eyes on before finding a comfortable position on the couch.

 

He turns on his back soon after, staring at the ceiling.

 

It's too quiet.

 

Sighing, he turns on his side again, eyes falling on the TV. With a mighty groan that could probably wake the dead, he sits up and starts to look for the remote.

 

“ _Who's there?_ ”

 

He yelps and shoots up, turning and tripping on the blanket pooling at his feet, resulting in him falling on his ass as his eyes latch on to a blonde girl who looks to be around his age. She's standing in the doorway to the bedroom, looking disheveled and sleepy, her fists already raised in front of her like she's ready for a boxing match, staring him down. He looks around quickly for something to defend himself with because _what the fuck_ , coming upon the remote on the coffee table and grabbing it with one hand, holding it in front of him like a sword.

 

“Who are you?” he croaks, feeling his heart beating its way out his chest. She scoffs.

 

“I asked you first.”

 

“Yeah well, I'm asking you now.”

 

“What are you, twelve?”

 

“I live here,” he says while slowly getting up from the floor, moving carefully like she's some kind of wild animal he needs to soothe. Shit, maybe she is, for all he knows. She relaxes her stance a little.

 

“No you don't, I do.” she says incredulously, looking at him as if he's sprouted a second head. He blinks.

 

“How can you live here? Are you homeless?”

 

“Do I look homeless?”

 

“Kind of,” he admits, his eyes going to her hair. She sputters indignantly at him, looking torn between throwing him a vicious retort and asking more questions, ultimately deciding on the latter.

 

“You think you live here?”

 

“I know I live here. I bought this place today.” Her mouth snaps shut at that, and he sees her grow pale before him. Well, paler. Something like dread settles in his stomach. “You didn't know?”

 

“How was I supposed to know?” she says, her voice high pitched as her brow furrows. “No one told me I've been kicked out.”

 

“No one was kicked out, the tenant died,” he explains, letting a hand settle over his eyes, feeling a headache coming on. He's wide awake now, but the adrenaline is already fading away, every part of his body feeling like lead, and his brain is apparently trying to squeeze its way out of his skull instead of looking for rationality.

 

It's suddenly very quiet.

 

“I didn't die,” she says slowly. He removes his hand to look at her. She's swaying a little in front of him, looking like she's about to pass out, and his natural instincts kick in, moving towards her to catch her in case she falls. She starts and dodges out of the way towards the couch, and he throws his hands up immediately as she practically snarls at him. “Don't touch me.”

 

“All right, I won't, but I'm not lying. I really do live here now.”

 

“Well so do I,” she snaps, moving around him and into the kitchen, raising a hand to open one of the cupboards. He sees it happening in a sort of slow motion, watches her fingers wrap around the handle and pulling her hand away empty, the cupboard staying shut. The dread in his stomach turns to icy water, as he watches her try again, her hand once again coming away empty. She turns slowly, eyes wide.

 

For a moment, neither of them speak.

 

“I'm dead?”

 

He feels hopeless as he stares, knowing that he should pick up his jaw and comfort her, but his brain is still trying to leave his skull, and his body is in desperate need of a kickstart. He's pretty sure the landlady chick would never lie to him like that, even if it was just for shits and giggles, but he still feels himself hoping desperately that it's a prank of some kind. Any minute now, there'll be a howl of laughter, a point at the hidden cameras, and his skin will flush and match that of a tomato, and he'll move out.

 

She doesn't laugh. There's no camera crew anywhere.

 

“Do you feel dead?” he asks finally, flinching at how wrong those words feel in his mouth. Who asks that?

 

“I don't think so,” she says with a frown, looking down at herself as if to check if she's transparent or otherwise notably dead. He feels positively horrible at this point for being the bearer of such bad news, but in his defense, how was he supposed to know that the apartment for sale was owned by someone who didn't now they had died?

 

“I'm sorry.”

 

“Not your fault.”

 

“Still,” he shrugs. She shrugs back and turns her head to the large knife holder by the sink, looking at it almost offensively, and he fleetingly wonders if she's thinking of trying to hurt herself with its contents, just to see if the theory holds up. Would it work? He'd rather she didn't try, so he distracts her by speaking again. “I can find another place to live. It's only fair that you get to stay here.”

 

“Thank you, but I don't think I could keep this place if you left. If I'm really dead, someone else could see that ad in the paper, and I'd just scare them.”

 

“Ghosts are in again, maybe they'd like you.”

 

“I highly doubt that,” she says solemnly, but her eyes are crinkling a little at the corners, taking years off her. She looks so young.

 

“How old are you?” he asks, because he is apparently an idiot with no sense of boundaries.

 

“twenty-two. You?”

 

“twenty-seven.”

 

Cool. I think I don't really mind you staying. The devil you know, and all that.”

 

“Thanks,” he says dryly, and she actually smiles this time. It feels a little like a slap to the face somehow, knowing that it looks so real, although it's really not, or at least not any more. Some part of him is still not convinced he isn't hallucinating or going crazy. “I gues I'll move in fully by the end of the week.”

 

She nods, looking suddenly nervous and shy as she sticks her hand out for his to take.

 

“I'm Clarke.”

 

“Bellamy,” he says, reaching out for her. His hand travels straight through hers, just like he thought it would, and it's like that time when he was a kid, sticking his hand into the dishwater in the crappy sink to unclog it of the rest of the watery leftover jello. He can sense the shape of her fingers, feel the warmth of what she used to be, but there's a certain weightlessness to it, like he's breaching a barrier too easily. It makes him shudder, and he sees her face fall a little.

 

“This should be interesting,” she mutters, sounding sad and curious at once. Bellamy can't really say he disagrees with that statement.

 

 

~*~

 

 

As promised, he moves the last of his stuff by the end of the week, with Miller and Octavia helping him. O pretends to do the heavy lifting, grabbing a box of his books and managing to get up the stairs without falling, then magically reappears fifteen minutes later, like the slacker she is. She sticks out her tongue at him when he points it out. Him and Miller move the futon and chair without a hitch, but they hit a roadblock when O stops them just as they're about to try and squeeze his giant bookcase through the door.

 

“That's never going to fit. You should just put it in storage.”

 

“It'll fit,” Miller says stubbornly from in front of the bookcase, arms straining as he tries to lift his end higher up. Bellamy snorts and silently agrees with his sister, but still tries to push ahead, and they succeed in getting it up the stairs and into the apartment. They move it into the living room and raise it upright, but it's too wide and hits the edges of the tiny alcove in the corner, and Bellamy hears Miller grumble something unintelligible under his breath.

 

“Told you,” O says from her spot on the couch, looking smug.

 

“I hate you,” Miller retorts, pulling at the bookcase and helping Bellamy lift it up and out the door again.

 

“You love me,” she coos, making kissing noises at him, and Miller nearly drops the precious cargo down the stairs, making Bellamy laugh. Miller has always been on good terms with his sister, but he is also very wary of her most of the time. Octavia Blake is a force to be reckoned with, and Miller may or may not have had a semi-crush on her during what he'd taken on himself to call his _gotta choose blues_ phase. O loves that she knows this important piece of information, and uses every inappropriate opportunity she can to tease him over it.

 

The best part of this golden nugget of information is probably Miller's boyfriend, Bryan, participating in said teasing from time to time.

 

Soon, they've filled the apartment with boxes, and Miller and Octavia take off to put the rest of the stuff in storage, leaving Bellamy to unpack his things. He waits until he hears the moving van go around the corner before he steps into the living room, looking around for his new roommate.

 

She appears to have gone missing for the time being, so he starts with the box labeled _clothes_ and carries it into the bedroom on his right. It's spacious and white, with a wardrobe pushed against one wall, and the headboard of the queen sized bed flush up against the other. There's a window at the far end overlooking the street below, and a shelf hanging next to it. It takes him about a minute to get to the second drawer when he decides on a drink of water, turning around to leave and accidentally walking straight through her.

 

“Jesus fuck!” he nearly whimpers, clutching at his chest, taking a step back and staring at Clarke. She looks horrified, raising her hands to reach out to him, then seems to think better of it, and let her hands fall back down to her sides.

 

“Sorry, I just...” she falters, biting her lip, her eyes suddenly looking everywhere but at him. “That's my room.”

 

“Oh,” he says stupidly, feeling heat crawl up his neck. His mind on automatic, he had assumed that the bedroom was obviously his, simply because he now lived there. Two bedrooms or not, he feels ashamed for not remembering that this was always hers. Maybe he should have asked where to put his stuff to begin with, but he was honestly a little too preoccupied with coming to terms with his the whole ghost... thing.

 

“Give me a minute, and I'll move my stuff,” he mumbles, raising a hand to place on his neck, feeling his palm grow warm under his fingers. He's pretty sure he's burning up with embarrassment. Clarke just nods, looking at his shoulder. He gets a sudden urge to tilt her chin up to look at him, to remind her that it's okay, it was an honest mistake and things would be fine.

 

But Clarke is dead, he can't touch her, and nothing is fine.

 

He hurriedly throws his belongings back into the box and practically shoots out the room, refusing to meet her eyes when he can finally feel her looking at him, her lips parted as if to speak. The box is quickly deposited inside, pushed up against the wall next to the door. Unlike the other room, this one is without a bed, but still hints at having been used, a desk under the window at the far right corner, and an easel in the other, with a tall stool next to it.

 

“You paint?” he asks, turning to look at her. She's standing a few feet from the doorway, looking as though she desperately wants to step inside but can't, her eyes wandering from wall to wall, probably reliving the memories only she can see on them. He lets himself mimmick her, going back to studying his surroundings more closely. There's a turqoise smudge on the yellow wall facing her bedroom, and a tiny dent in the one opposite. The panels around the room look as though they've been scrubbed clean several times, but he can still make out a few specks of colourful paint here and there, ranging from dark to light.

 

“Not anymore,” she says quietly, and there's that mixture of sadness and curiosity from before, the one that he's already starting to hate vehemently. It's good that she's questioning the reasoning for her whereabouts obviously, but he hates it when people are in pain, and Clarke seems to breathe hurt and sorrow. Ironic for a dead girl.

 

He forces himself to stop that thought immediately. Enough, he gets it, she's dead. End of story.

 

“I have a futon I can use,” he assures her, offering her a smile. She tries to give him one in return, he can tell, but what comes out looks more like a grimace than anything. Still, it's better than nothing, and he slides by her out the doorway, heading for the futon. He decides to do it the easy way, lifting one end of it and carrying it in a half circle as close as he can to the room. He then starts dragging it towards the door, looking up and catching Clarke's somewhat amused gaze. “You could help, you know.”

 

“Sorry. Butterfingers,” she lies, holding up her hands, wiggling her fingers.

 

He grins and drags the futon the rest of the way inside, wondering if it's a good or bad thing that they can already joke about her being dead.

 

 

~*~

 

 

Clarke disappears for two days.

 

It feels weird to miss her.

 

She comes back when he's in the middle of cooking dinner, peering over his shoulder and into the contents of the pot. She reaches over him and tries to stick her finger in the boiling water, and he yelps and jerks to the side, hand going to his chest in what has already become an all too familiar motion. One of these days, she'll surely kill him.

 

Maybe that's the plan. Maybe she's too bored with death and wants a companion or a mate, like Frankenstein's monster.

 

“Don't do that!” he groans, trying to get his heart under control, glaring at her. She manages to somehow look apologetic and smug at the same time. He rolls his eyes and goes back to focusing on his cooking. “Where were you?” he asks, hoping he sounds more like he's small talking than interrogating her. He sees her shrug out of the corner of his eye.

 

“I don't know. Here, I think.”

 

“I didn't see you.”

 

“That's the funny thing about dead people.”

 

“Haha,” he shoots back, turning off the stove and turning to look at her. She looks better this time, less pale and brighter around the eyes. They are startingly blue. “You don't know where you go when you disappear?”

 

She shakes her head and reaches out for the pot again, sticking her hand into the still boiling water, and he's about to try and yank her hand back out when he notices her pouting, apparently disappointed that she really, truly can't feel a thing. Her hand draws back, unblistered and soft looking and perfect.

 

“Maybe it's the other side. Do you see a light when you disappear?”

 

She's dead, but he can still practically feel himself burning to a crisp under her steely gaze.

 

“Okay, stupid question,” he admits, and she scoffs, “but aren't you curious? I mean, if you're really dead, why are you still here?”

 

She seems to consider his words this time.

 

“Maybe I have unfinished business?”

 

“Shouldn't you know yourself if you have unfinished business?” he snorts, turning around to stir the contents in the pot around with a wooden spoon. He can practically hear her roll her eyes next to him.

 

“I wouldn't know, because I don't even remember dying. How can I know what's unfinished and what's not? Is it the universe trying to tell me something? Maybe I need to take revenge on someone who killed me, or I need to say goodbye to people, or maybe it's just a shitty cosmic joke and I'm bound to stay here forever and haunt the shit out of everyone who live-”

 

“Hey,” he soothes, putting the spoon down and reaching out for her. His hand fall through her shoulders with his forgetfulness, but he suppresses the shudder going through his spine, instead raising his hands again and placing them level with where her shoulders should have been solid. It's a small gesture of normalcy, but it's something. She looks at him with wide eyes, something not unlike gratitude swimming within them. “If you do turn out to have unfinished business, I'll help you. All right?”

 

“All right,” she nods, lips tightening in a grimace. He nods back and lets his hands drop to his side, suddenly at a loss with how to proceed. Where do you go even from here?

 

“Do you have any family who might know something?” he asks carefully. Her eyes widen after a moment, and he's immediately terrified he's said the wrong thing.

 

“Oh no. Oh no no no no,” she mumbles, fisting her hands into her hair and curling in on herself, and he's cursing himself because yes, he's definitely said the wrong thing.

 

“Clarke,” he tries, feeling hopeless because he can't reach out and stop her panicking. She shakes her head and hurries away from him, into the living room and starts pacing up and down the floor, her string of denial continuing. “Clarke, you're gonna hyperventilate if you keep this up,” he warns, causing her to snap.

 

“Fuck off, Bellamy, it won't kill me.”

 

He blinks, thrown off by her cursing, but tries again.

 

“Talk to me.”

 

She turns to him, and it looks like it's taking all her strength to unclench her hands from her hair.

 

“I left Charlotte alone.”

 

“Who? Your sister?”

 

She shakes her head, “She's a cancer patient at Ark Memorial. I used to stay with her a lot in my spare time, checking in on her to see if she was okay. She's a foster kid, and she's between families right now.” She closes her eyes, looking pained. “God, I left her all alone. She must be shattered.”

 

“That's not your fault,” he says gently, his mind still trying to process what he's hearing. Apparently she's a doctor and an artist. _Was_ , his brain helpfully supplies. “I'm sure she's fine.”

 

Clarke shakes her head at his words, and there is a pit in his stomach again.

 

“You don't understand, Bellamy. She's so lonely. She's bullied at school, she's been with three families now, and none of it matters to her any more. The leukemia is just another point on the list, and she's lost her will to live after her last family gave up on her, and she's my patient, it's literally my job to take care of her, and somehow I've managed to leave her behind and-”

 

The tears are rolling down her face before he can get to her, and he tries to wrap his arms around her, already knowing it's impossible. His arms embrace nothing but the air, and then himself, and he looks down.

 

She's disappeared.

 

“ _Fuck!_ ” he curses, slamming a flat hand against the closest wall.

 

 

~*~

 

 

He wakes up when he feels her place a hand on his arm.

 

Well, _through_ his arm, but still.

 

“Hi,” she says, wide eyes looking him over. He probably looks a sight, hair all disheveled and untamed and his body angled oddly sideways on the couch, having fallen asleep while sitting and waiting for her, hoping for her to reappear.

 

“I thought you'd gone,” is what comes out of his mouth, his voice gruff with sleep. The 'for good' hangs heavily between them, and he realizes with a wince that it came out much harsher than he'd intended, like her disappearence had somehow been her fault. She shakes her head lightly.

 

“I'm still here.”

 

“Good.”

 

“Yeah. Good,” she repeats, like she's testing it out on her tongue. He sits up and yawns, stretching his arms above his head and groans, already feeling a strain in his neck that's going to kill him tomorrow. Clarke sits in front of him with her legs crossed, looking up at his display, and he suddenly feels very self conscious when he sees her gaze drop to his chest area for a split second. He clears his throat.

 

“Where did you go?”

 

“I still don't know. It looked like the apartment, only you weren't there.”

 

“Well, how did you come back?”

 

“I don't really know,” she frowns, looking deep in thought. “I tried thinking really hard about you, and that helped a little I guess, but I didn't come back until I actually relaxed and just let it happen.”

 

He suppresses a blush, nodding slowly. “That's good. Remember that. If you disappear again, you can try that.” She tilts her head to the side. “What?”

 

“You were worried,” she says almost accusatory, like he really shouldn't have been.

 

“Of course.”

 

“Why?”

 

“You were upset,” he croaks, unsure of what exactly it is that she wants from him. “Should I not have been worried?”

 

“I'm just surprised. We don't know each other yet, and you're already rushing to my aid. It's weird.”

 

“Well excuse me, Princess, but I'm not going to let my new roommate cry her eyes out over something that's beyond her control without at least consoling her, buddies or not.”

 

“Princess?” she repeats, scrunching her nose at him. He almost laughs.

 

“If the shoe fits.” She rolls her eyes and sticks her tongue out at him, but smiles anyway. Something flutters in his belly at the sight of her happy, and he pushes down on it immediately, willing it to go away. He lets the silence envelop them instead, taking his time to study her while she looks down towards her feet. She seems tired again, like the first time he saw her.

 

“I doubt my family is taking this too well,” she mutters quietly. He frowns.

 

“Yeah, I was wondering about that. Should we try to contact them?”

 

“We?” she asks, head snapping up to look at him, and he feels himself blush for real this time.

 

“I said I'd help,” he answers, shrugging. She looks at him for a few seconds longer, then nods, going back to staring at a spot on the floor.

 

“My dad's dead, but my mom is working at the hospital with me. She's chief of surgery there.”

 

He nods, “Any brothers or sisters?”

 

“Kind of. My dad was a widower when he met my mom, but my brother's more estranged than anything. Him and mom never got along. Lived with us for a while, but ultimately packed up the last of his shit and left when I was ten and he was eighteen.” Her brows knit together, and she looks hesitant, like she's regretted even speaking up, but she continues before he can assure her of anything. “He works as a mechanic downtown. His last name is Wick.”

 

“I'll look him up tomorrow,” Bellamy promises, yawning as he feels his eyes begin to droop. Clarke smiles at him, getting up from the floor and looking down at him gently, and her hand goes out to rest at his shoulder briefly, her hand stopping just before it can sink through him. He looks up at her, surprised to find that he's just as glad as her when it comes to keeping up appearances.

 

“Goodnight,” she says, and disappears into her bedroom.

 

 

~*~

 

 

The next two days are spent acting like she's some sort of test dummy.

 

It's ridiculous really, alternating between arguing about her safety and treating her like a voodoo doll, but it provides answers. They find out she can walk through walls and furniture like she's goddamn Casper, but that she can also sit and lay down on the couch and her bed. Nothing hurts her; Knives go straight through her, punches fall flat, and sadly, hand holding does too. He tries not to let that last one bother him.

 

He looks up her brother, but his number is unlisted. They agree to seek him out at his home at the earliest convenience.

 

She literally pops in on him during his bartending on Friday night, scaring the shit out of him when he's in the middle of stocking up on glasses. She appears in his field of vision with a greeting, and the glass in his hand falls to the floor and shatters, the shards going everywhere, and he swears and glares at her, like he's apparently made a habit of doing already.

 

“Oops.”

 

“What the fuck, Bell?” Monroe asks from somewhere down the bar, and he swivels around, taking in her unamused expression and raised eyebrow.

 

“Sorry. Slipped out of my hand,” he mutters, grabbing the towel hanging on his shoulder and laying it on the ground, crouching down and starting to pick up the pieces and throw them on the cloth. Clarke walks through the bar (something he dearly wishes she would stop doing immediately) and crouches down in front of him. “What are you doing here?” he hisses through gritted teeth. She doesn't seem fased by his irritation at all, smiling at him so widely her teeth are showing. He's never seen her teeth before, he realises.

 

“I found you,” she says, eyes wide and shining. He frowns, which she takes as a sign to continue. “I wanted to see if I could leave the apartment, so I thought of you and relaxed, and I can.” Her hand goes to hover above his, and he feels it all the way down to his toes. “Bellamy, I could go visit Charlotte and my mother.”

 

“Is that such a good idea?” he asks her quietly, continuing to pick up the pieces of broken glass around him, thankful that the night has already started. The noise really starts to pick up within the next few hours, but with the rate people are going now, him and Clarke could be carrying a conversation at normal volume with no problem at all. Speaking of which, and he's really worried that it hasn't crossed his mind until now, “Wait, can anyone else see you?”

 

“I don't think so,” Clarke says, smile fading a little as she looks over his shoulder at Monroe. Bellamy turns a little and looks out of the corner of his eye, seeing his colleague has turned her attention away from him to service a dudebro with a cap, pouring beer into a pitcher. Clarke decides to test her by putting up two middle fingers and waving them around in wide gestures, and Bellamy has to restrain himself from stopping her.

 

He just about dies when she whistles and catcalls Monroe.

 

Nothing.

 

Satisfied with her offensive display, she lowers her arms and looks to Bellamy, who only shakes his head and continues to pick up the remaining pieces of the glass. They've known each other for less than a week, and his health is already dangerously declining, he's sure of it.

 

“You're lucky you're already dead,” he whispers, and she pokes her finger through his shoulder in retaliation, making him shiver. He gives her the stinkeye before gathering the corners of the towel in his hand and lifting it, heading for the trash can a few feet away, hearing her giggling following him. She sits herself on the floor at his end of the bar, crossing her legs and grinning at him when he comes back, and he makes sure to snap the now empty towel in her direction as he passes, chuckling when she gives a squeak and dodges out of the way by instinct.

 

He knows that Monroe is probably staring and judging his weirdness, but he's more or less embracing the insanity at this point, smiling at the blonde dude that just walked up, in what he hopes is a more friendly than psychotic matter. “What can I get you?”

 

“Tequila,” Blonde Dude says and sits, sounding and looking much more subdued than the rest of the people in here. Bellamy tones his mood down a little, turning around and grabbing a tequila bottle off the shelf, pouring and shoving the shotglass across the counter. It's downed in a second and slammed on the table the next, and Bellamy's eyebrow goes up as he pours another.

 

“Bad day?”

 

“The worst,” Blonde Dude agrees, downing his second quicker than the first, and Bellamy briefly considers just leaving the bottle.

 

“Want to talk about it?” he asks, and Blonde Dude snorts. He hears Clarke snicker at his feet, and he would have kicked her shin if he could.

 

“Right, you guys are like unlicensed psychotherapists or some shit.”

 

“Better,” Bellamy says, pouring another shot. “We're unlicensed psychotherapists with easy access to hard liquor.”

 

Blonde Dude laughs and tilts his head back, gulping down his third drink. “So what does three shots of tequila get me?”

 

“How about you start with your mood, and what brought it on?” Bellamy smirks, turning and serving a brunette a few seats down. Blonde Dude rolls his eyes, still laughing, although it sounds more bitter now.

 

“I got some terrible news today.”

 

“Death in the family?” Bellamy guesses, and Blonde Dude nods.

 

“Pretty much.”

 

“Shit, that's rough. Sorry, dude.”

 

He waves a hand at Bellamy in response, shrugging. “I'll be fine. It'll take me a couple of years, sure, but I'll be okay in the end.” Bellamy hums in affirmation, coming back to him and glancing down at Clarke as he does so. She's drawing patterns on her leg with her finger, looking lost in thought. He snaps his attention back to Blonde Dude, offering what he hopes is a comforting smile.

 

“It definitely takes a while, but it gets better. Dead mom,” he adds, and Blonde Dude nods, offering his hand.

 

“Dead dad,” he says, and they shake on it like it's some sort of agreement.

 

They make pathetic small talk that's hard to keep up as the hour goes by, and Blonde Dude ends up leaving while Bellamy is on one of his bathroom breaks. Clarke has taken to humming to herself, keeping up with the music playing from the jukebox at the other end of the bar, and Bellamy can't help but smile a little. It's cute. Normal. You know, if you let yourself forget that your new friend is dead.

 

Octavia and Lincoln show up around eleven, heading straight for his corner of the bar, and he groans.

 

“Not gonna happen, O,” he says just as she opens her mouth, and her lips form a pout instead.

 

“Bell, please, it's been a horrible day. I just want a drink with my boyfriend.” Bellamy's eyes shift to Lincoln, who just shrugs, giving off his usual charming smile. Meanwhile, Clarke has risen from her spot next to him, watching his sister curiously, then him. He can feel more than see her raised eyebrow, and he finally heaves a sigh, dropping his shoulders in defeat, feeling like they're all ganging up on him.

 

“You're the designated driver,” he tells his sister's boyfriend. “I'm not sleeping over again.”

 

“Thanks, big brother. You're the best,” O says, leaning across the counter to smack a kiss to his cheek. Lincoln watches the two of them with an amused fondness while Bellamy rolls his eyes and starts mixing Octavia's favourite drink, Clarke smirking beside him. The drink is horrid and pink and so very strong but O loves it, eagerly slurping on the straw in obvious exaggeration when she sees his face scrunch up in disgust. Lincoln laughs and wraps his arm around her waist, his fingers tapping to the music against the bar.

 

Octavia complains about her horrible day while he bartends for the next two hours.

 

He feels terrible for not speaking to Clarke, who has gone back to sitting again, knowing that all he can really do is send her a comforting smile every once in a while, in between customers when no one's looking. She smiles back whenever he does, but her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes, and he has to stop himself several times from walking over to her to comfort her. It's not like they are the best of friends, but that doesn't mean he wants to see her sad. In the end she stands, heading away from him and towards the door. His eyebrows knit together as he watches her walk through it, evaporating before his eyes.

 

He gets a hold of Monroe and makes the excuse to get some fresh air, telling O he needs to make a phonecall.

 

Clarke is standing outside under a street light, arms crossed and looking deep in thought.

 

“Hey Clarke.”

 

She turns her head to look at him, her confused features softening into something like amusement.

 

“Seriously? This is your cover?”

 

“Nice to talk to you too,” he retorts into his phone, eyes focused on her as he speaks. She giggles.

 

“Point taken,” she says, then, “Thank you.”

 

“Don't mention it.”

 

“I'm okay, I was just getting bored in there.”

 

“Doing nothing will do that to you,” he shrugs. She hums in response, giving him another one of her smiles, this one brilliant and soft. Ironically enough, it warms him up. “You could always go home,” he suggests, only to see her shake her head.

 

“It's fine. I don't mind waiting.”

 

“I'll be done soon,” he promises, before pretending to hang up. She sends him another smile so heartbreakingly real, it nearly manages to turn his insides to jelly. He forces himself to wipe the smile off his face before he goes inside.

 

 

~*~

 

 

He hates hospital coffee.

 

It always manages to somehow taste stale and strong all at once, burning his tongue and ruining his taste buds, but he forces it down anyway, throwing the plastic cup in the trash when he's done. He settles back down into a chair in the waiting room, watching Clarke pace back and forth in front of him.

 

“I wish she would hurry up,” she says, beginning to bite down on a fingernail, and he sighs, hating that he can't reply or console her. The waiting room isn't exactly filled to the brim with people, but he's pretty sure the elderly woman three chairs down and the child with his mother sitting opposite him would worry if he suddenly started talking to himself. Luckily, she seems to have gotten stuck in a rhetorical loop, conversing with herself more than him. “I wouldn't be surprised if she used 'stuck in surgery' as an excuse.”

 

He clears his throat in response, and Clarke's eyes snap to his. He looks down at his feet and takes a deep breath, making a point of breathing deeply through his nose, his chest expanding as he inhales, caving in with the exhale. He hears her snort.

 

“Fine,” she groans, stopping her pacing and crossing her arms instead, resting her weight on one leg. She heaves a dramatic breath, staring pointedly back at him. The corner of his mouth tugs up briefly.

 

“Bellamy Blake?” He stands quickly, watching Clarke go rigid beside him, staring at the woman in the white coat.

 

“Mom.”

 

He has to force himself to keep calm.

 

“Dr. Griffin?” he asks as he walks closer, and she nods, taking his hand. “I'm a friend of Clarke's.”

 

She blinks at him in surprise, and he can tell that the smile she's giving him is forced.

 

“I hope you'll forgive me for not knowing anthing about you. She makes a point out of not telling me about her friends.”

 

Clarke snorts from her position behind him, and he wishes they had a telepathy bond, just so he could tell her to shut it. “That's all right, our friendship's pretty new,” he says. Dr. Griffin nods and lets go of his hand, sticking her own hand in her coat pocket, mouth set in a thin line. She looks beautiful, if a little worn out, like she's been awake for years without sleep.

 

“I'm guessing you're here to offer your condolences?”

 

“And to see Charlotte,” Bellamy adds. Dr. Griffin's eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and he hastens to explain himself. “Clarke wanted me to join her and visit her, and I got worried after... Well, everything. I was hoping I could check in on her.”

 

“That's very noble of you,” Dr. Griffin says, looking as though she's trying desperately to get her facial expressions under control. “You're not family though.” Clarke huffs behind him.

 

“I thought I'd try anyway.”

 

Dr. Griffin nods and tells him she'll look into it, turning around and walking out of the waiting room, leaving him standing there like a fool. He already knows she won't look into it. Sighing, he digs out his phone and opens up the notepad, typing out the message, taking notice of Clarke now standing beside him.

 

_That's your mom???_

 

Clarke reads the message and snorts. “Yeah, she's always like that when she's at work.”

 

He rolls his eyes and pockets the phone, accepting his defeat and beginning the long walk out of the waiting room and down the hall towards the elevators. He hears Clarke sighing deeply beside him, and he wishes desperately that he could reach out and take her hand. He would stroke her skin with his thumb, tell her it's alright, tighten his grip on her and lead her out of this hell hole.

 

“Wait!”

 

He stops in his tracks, turning around to see that Clarke has stopped several feet behind him, standing by the nurses station. Confused, he walks up to see her pointing at a nurse sitting at a computer, looking up at his arrival. Her dirty blonde hair is tied up in a messy ponytail, and her scrubs are pink, adorned with a nametag that says Harper. “Can I help you?”

 

“Hi, sorry,” he clears his throat, “I'm here to see Charlotte?”

 

“Charlotte...”

 

“I don't know her last name, sorry.”

 

Nurse Harper frowns at the same time that Clarke reaches out and swings her hand through his arm, and he barely stops himself from flinching. “Tell her you know me, idiot,” Clarke hisses.

 

“I'm sorry, I'm Bellamy Blake. Clarke asked me a while back if I had time for a visit...” he trails off, unsure of how to finish the sentence. It seems to do the trick though, as he watches nurse Harper's eyes widen in recognition at Clarke's name before sadness sets in.

 

“Room 206,” she says and hands him a badge that says 'visitor', and then adds almost like an afterthought, “She really misses her.”

 

He doesn't know what to say to that really, so he nods solemnly, thanking her and heading towards the elevators again, waiting for the doors to open so he can step inside. It's empty, and he presses the button for the second floor, nearly sagging in relief against the back wall.

 

“Fuck,” Clarke mutters, and he turns his head. She's gone back to biting at another nail.

 

“You okay?”

 

“Not really,” she says, and her foot starts to tap against the floor. Before he can answer, they've already arrived on the second floor, and she practically shoots out of the elevator and down the hall, leaving Bellamy to follow after. He fiddles with the visitor's badge as he walks, passing number after number until he's finally standing before 206, catching up to Clarke. She's standing in front of the door, staring at it while wringing her hands.

 

He knocks and waits, pushing down the handle when he hears a small voice invite him inside.

 

The room is bathed in the sunlight streaming in from the open window, casting a bright glow over the tiny occupant in the hospital bed. She's looking curiously at him from behind big brown eyes, the thumb of her IV hand stuck in between the pages of a young adult novel she's reading. For some reason, he feels his heart lighten a little when he sees that she's still got her hair, hanging in a braid down her shoulder, like having hair would somehow make everything okay, make the disease less intimidating and devastating.

 

Leave it to Bellamy Blake to romanticise destruction.

 

“Hi,” she croaks, giving a little smile, and he hears Clarke take a deep breath behind him.

 

“Hi,” he says back, smiling softly and walking into the room, closing the door behind him. He pulls a chair from the corner closer to her bed, sitting down and looking up at her. “You don't know me, but I'm one of Clarke's friends.”

 

Charlotte's smile turns sad, and he can see her try her damndest to keep her emotions at bay, her eyes going glassy as she turns her gaze to the bedspread. “I miss her,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper, and Clarke sighs heavily. She appears in his field of vision, her hand reaching out and passing through Charlotte's hand and further through the corner of bed as if it were nothing at all, eyes never leaving her patient.

 

“I miss you too, sweetie.”

 

He clears his throat to get rid of the uncomfortable lump forming there.

 

“I miss her too. I hope it's okay that I'm here. Thought you'd like some company.”

 

“Thanks,” she says, her smile seeming more relaxed this time, “I don't mind. It gets a bit boring here.”

 

“I can imagine,” he grins, thinking of just how annoying it must be to be tied to a bed with more or less permanence. He'd tried a bedridden week back when he was thirteen and had gotten a serious case of the flu, and he was never ever doing that again. He loved reading with all his heart, but books could only do so much. “Do you get a lot of visitors?”

 

“Just Clarke, and Harper when she has the time,” Charlotte shrugs, dog-earing a page in her book and putting it away. With her hands suddenly free, she starts to play with the edge of her bedspread, bunching it up underneath her fingers, looking a little nervous. He nods, letting his own hands fold in front of him, bending forward and resting his forearms on his legs.

 

“That's sounds nice.”

 

She nods a little, casting a glance behind him before leaning forward and lowering her voice. “Harper sneaks in chocolate sometimes.”

 

He chuckles while Clarke rolls her eyes, muttering _I knew it_ under her breath.

 

“If you ever get tired of chocolate, I could bring you some gummy bears,” he says, and Charlotte's smile could rival that of a Christmas tree. It's worth the would-be slap that Clarke gives him.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Don't mention it,” he smiles, waving her off and ignoring Clarke who's suddenly smirking by his side. He knows perfectly well he's blushing, thank you very much. It's a hot day, who wouldn't heat up? Charlotte's own face turns pink with the attention she's getting, and she turns to her bedside table, opening up the top drawer and reaching into it, hand coming back with a few broken off pieces of chocolate. He accepts one, popping it in his mouth.

 

Surprisingly, he ends up spending a a good half hour with Charlotte, talking about the books and comics she's been reading, and her life at the hospital. She doesn't like talking too much about Clarke, which he understands, so they do their best to navigate through the somewhat touchy subjects, such as Clarke and Charlotte's adventures (Santa Claus and Donatello apparently got into a fight once during Halloween), and the times that Clarke would simply keep her company, most of which ended up with Charlotte waking up during the night to find Clarke asleep in the visitor's chair. Bellamy smiles at the stories, casting occasional glances in the direction of the subject in question, watching how Clarke is sitting on the floor at his feet, drawing patterns on her leg while she listens, like she did yesterday at the bar. She's not exactly smiling, but she thankfully doesn't look sad either. Just... Melancholy, like she's remembering a far off memory.

 

Nurse Harper pops in with lunch, and he departs with the promise to return again, leaving Charlotte blushing and waving him cheerfully out the door.

 

“You okay?” he asks once they're back in the elevator, and he watches her practically deflate with relief beside him. She turns to him, looking as though she's torn between laughing or crying.

 

“She looked good.”

 

“Yeah, she did,” he smiles, wanting desperately to reach out and give her a hug. Before he can say anything else the doors slide open, and a family of three with an elderly man in a wheelchair make their way inside, and Clarke leaps out of the way, nearly going through Bellamy.

 

They slip out of the elevator upon arrival, and he deposits the visitor's badge before they head outside. Immediately, his phone is in his hand, and he pretends to dial before holding it up to his ear.

 

“You're such a dork,” Clarke comments as they make their way to the other side of the street.

 

“Yeah well, at least I don't look insane,” he retorts, and she rolls her eyes.

 

“Come on, live a little. Talking to yourself is the new sane.”

 

“I think you're mistaking talking to yourself with that earpiece thing. Which I'm never getting, by the way.”

 

Clarke walking beside him and giggling is probably the best thing he's ever experienced, and he's going to treasure it forever.

 

Even if that means he's later going to associate it with the sight of his sister and her boyfriend coming towards them from the parking lot, the latter holding a blood soaked towel against the inside of his forearm, the hideous green shade of the towel complimenting the dark skin much more than it should. Freezing in his tracks, he stares as Octavia catches sight of him and frowns.

 

“Bell?”

 

He pockets the phone immediately, rushing over to get a better look at Lincoln's injury. “Shit, what happened?”

 

“Well, it's our day off and Romeo here apparently decided to start preparing a grand feast for tonight and hold a conversation at the same time,” Octavia scolds, even as she looks at him with a fondness that tugs at Bellamy's heart. Moving into an apartment with her boyfriend had definitely done her good, giving her much needed space after spending day upon day under the same roof with her brother, and Bellamy really can't bring himself to hate Lincoln in the slightest for taking her away. He's good for her. Everyone knows it's true love, just by looking at them.

 

“I'm fine,” Lincoln says, or rather groans, although his facial expression begs to differ. Bellamy's sure it's nothing but a typical run of the mill gash in the arm, but the way Lincoln grits his teeth together suggests that it's more than a really unfortunate accident.

 

“He's bleeding a lot.”

 

“Huh?” Bellamy asks without thinking, turning his head to look at Clarke, who's trying her hardest not to grab a hold of Lincoln.

 

“He's hit something close to an artery or a nerve. Put more pressure on the cut.”

 

Bellamy moves and takes a hold of Lincoln's arm, placing a hand over his and pushing down hard while ignoring the strange look he's getting from Octavia. Lincoln hisses but clamps down harder on the towel, and they all hurry back inside the hospital, thankfully getting a hold of a nurse in record time, and then Lincoln is practically whisked away, leaving the remnants of three confused people in the waiting room.

 

Octavia waits until Lincoln is out of sight before she grabs Bellamy's arm and drags him towards the bathrooms, Clarke following with a worried frown.

 

“O, what the hell?” he manages to get out, but she only tugs him harder, around the corner and further towards the gender seperated stalls, then taking a sharp turn and opening the door to the disabled toilets.

 

“In.”

 

It's not up for discussion apparently.

 

Casting a wary glance to the side at Clarke, he walks inside, shoulders slumped like he's preparing himself for a scolding. Octavia stares at him as she closes the door behind her. He vaguely registers that Clarke has decided to give them some privacy, waiting on the other side.

 

Octavia cuts to the chase right away.

 

“Are you high?”

 

Of all the things he'd expected her to say, this should probably have been in his top ten.

 

“What?”

 

“Did our past finally get to your head? What are you even doing here? I mean, did everything finally catch up to you, and you're about to OD on something to rebel and make up for lost youth?”

 

“Of course not, why would I do that?” he sputters, crossing his arms. She raises an eyebrow and mimicks his pose.

 

“I just saw you acknowledge empty air like five minutes ago, and then you helped me and Lincoln inside like you were suddenly McDreamy.”

 

“Now I'm bad for trying to help Lincoln?” he asks, feeling defensive. It doesn't help that Octavia is looking at him like he's six years old and has just been told that the earth is flat instead of round.

 

“You're terrible at first aid, Bellamy.”

 

“Am not.”

 

“You made me wear three band aids that time I fell out of a tree.”

 

He scoffs, “So?”

 

“I only scraped my knee, and there was barely any blood.”

 

Things change, O. I can't stay bad at first aid forever.”

 

“And you can't lie for shit.” Her features soften into worry, her body relaxing a little. What's going on, Bell?”

 

He sighs deeply, feeling it travel all the way through him. This is not good. He knew he was probably bound to slip up at some point, and that he would have to explain himself, trying to make other people see the sense in him communicating with a dead person. He had honestly been hoping that O's turn had been somewhere way further down the line, some time after he had maybe figured it all out with Clarke, figured out why she was still here. It wasn't as if this made any sense. He's really just rolling with it at this point.

 

“It's really not a good time for this, O,” he says finally. She shakes her head in response.

 

“It's never going to be a good time for you. Just tell me, you idiot.”

 

“O-”

 

“Please,” she begs, reaching up and placing her hand over his crossed arms. He sighs again, making his mind up and lets his arms fall to his sides, flexing his hands briefly. He can do this.

 

“All right. I warned you.”

 

“Just spit it out.”

 

It feels like throwing himself out from a cliff without a parachute. Probably.

 

“I was talking to Clarke.”

 

Her brow furrows. “Who's Clarke?”

 

“She's dead.”

 

She's quiet for a minute, _a literal_ _minute_ , looking torn between tugging the corners of her mouth up and admitting him to a psych ward.

 

“Like, dead inside dead, or Bruce Willis dead?”

 

“O, please take this seriously,” he groans, bringing a hand up and over his eyes, feeling a headache coming on, not unlike the one he'd had the first time he met Clarke. Maybe it's stress headaches. “You just said yourself I can't lie for shit.”

 

“There's a difference between lying and believing,” she says pointedly. He tries his best not to glare at her as he removes his hand, and it's like something clicks into place somewhere behind her face when she looks at him. Her eyes widen a fraction, and she suddenly looks like she's going to cry. “You really do believe it, don't you?”

 

He knew it was a terrible idea to tell her.

 

But it's too late to take it back down now, so he nods, watching her closely, looking for telltale signs of a freak out or a panic attack. Octavia has always been strong, but that didn't mean that she didn't let her guard down every once in a while. As far as he knows, Lincoln and Bellamy are two of the select few that knows what weakness looks like on Octavia, while the rest of the world are usually subjected to the equivalent of a badass 24/7 feminist. Knowing her as intimately as he does is a privilege, although it sure doesn't feel like it now, watching her as she fights against herself with letting her guard down or treating him like just another face in the crowd.

 

“Prove it.”

 

He blinks.

 

“Prove that you can talk to me,” Clarke says, from where she's suddenly sticking her upper body through the door. He tries not to let himself be too disturbed by it, and she at least has the decency to look a little sheepish, probably because she knows it makes him uncomfortable, or because she's just admitting to having eavesdropped. Probably both. Octavia stares at him, then behind her at the door, then back at him.

 

“She's here?”

 

Bellamy nods, at a loss for words, wondering if he really _should_ let himself be admitted to a psych ward, because all this is really too much. Stuff like this doesn't happen in real life. Hollywood movies with Patrick Swayze, sure.

 

He really needs to sit down before he keels over.

 

“She wants to prove that she's here,” he explains as he flips down the toiletseat, sitting down on the lid and burrying his head in his hands, determining that it's definitely possible that Clarke has taken years off his life.

 

“All right then. How many fingers am I holding up?”

 

His head snaps up. “Huh?”

 

“How many fingers?” Octavia asks, eyebrow raised in challenge as she hides her hand behind her back. He sighs and tilts his body a little to the side to look at Clarke, who shrugs in reply, but also looks somewhat determined to help. Like helping him would keep him out of the loony bin.

 

“Five,” he says when Clarke tells him. Octavia nods and motions for him to go again.

 

“One... Three... Five... Six...”

 

Clarke snorts out a laugh and holds up two middle fingers, and he nearly chokes.

 

“Are you flipping her off?”

 

Octavia's eyes widen, and he sees her hands doing something behind her back. Clarke sucks in a breath, and he watches her with rapt attention as she holds her hand up, pointing at her ring finger. Bellamy feels all the air leaves his lungs.

 

“You're getting married?” he whispers, and Octavia nearly cries, either with happiness or relief, he isn't sure. She nods, holding her hand up in front of her. “Holy fuck,” he mutters, finally noticing the ring.

 

 

~*~

 

 

For some reason, explaining himself turns out to be a lot easier than he thought it would be.

 

Octavia seems very wary about it all, and understandably so, but she still nods attentively when he explains that Clarke used to own the apartment, and how they're basically forced to try out this dead-undead roommate thing until they can figure out why she's still around. He voices his concern with O taking all of this in so easily, to which she smartly replies that she really did mean it when she said he was shit at lying. It saddens him that she's right.

 

“You said there was a difference between lying and believing,” he points out as they sit in the waiting room, huddled in the corner as they wait for Lincoln to finish getting patched up. It's taking longer than usual, but Clarke assures him (and he assures O), that they're most likely taking precautions because the wound was probably deeper than expected.

 

“And I stand by that,” O says softly, taking one of his hands in hers and dragging it over her lap. She starts tracing a fingertip lazily across the lines in his palm while he watches her. “Of course I'm worried about you and all this, but I think we need to treat this as an 'innocent until proven guilty' thing.”

 

He nods.

 

“That would be better than just saying I'm crazy,” he admits, and she snorts.

 

“Oh no, you're totally crazy, but there's no need to add fuel to the fire.”

 

He snorts and shoves her leg, and she grins back, nudging his foot with her own. Clarke smiles along with them, and for a split second, everything is normal. They're just three people in a waiting room, waiting for their friend.

 

Reality hits Octavia first, her smile fading as she leans closer to him, lowering her voice.

 

“Do you know why she's still around?” she asks carefully, alternating between looking at him and his shoulder, and it startles him a little when he realises that she's doing it to try and include Clarke in the conversation. Bellamy has never loved his sister more.

 

“Unfinished business?” he shrugs, trying not to look back at Clarke, somehow knowing she's nodding. “It's still unclear.”

 

“You mean like that dead lady in that Friends episode?”

 

“I've already been to a lesbian wedding, so that probably won't work,” Clarke says nonchalant, and he can't help the laugh that's bubbling up inside him. Octavia raises an eyebrow, and he shakes his head, knowing he'll have to tell her later, but for now they need to get back on track, if the judging look from the elderly couple across the waiting room is any indication. He shoots them an apologetic smile, and they glare at him a moment longer, before going back to minding their own business. Clarke can't stop laughing of course.

 

“This is ridiculous,” he mutters, chuckling. Octavia looks at him fondly, about to reply, but Lincoln comes around the corner before she gets her chance to. His arm is all wrapped up, and he still looks a little pale but otherwise fine as he braves a crushing Octavia hug.

 

“I'm fine,” he says into her shoulder, clutching her close with his uninjured arm, but Octavia just shakes her head and tugs him closer.

 

“You're an idiot.”

 

“That too,” he smirks, leaning back and placing a brief kiss on her lips, before he straightens and looks to Bellamy. “Thanks, man. They said I could have lost a lot more blood.”

 

“Don't mention it,” Bellamy replies, feeling his ears grow a little red. Clarke may or may not be cooing behind him.

 

“Well, I would invite you to dinner tonight, but that's probably not happening,” Lincoln says with a smile, shrugging. Octavia scoffs.

 

“Like hell, it's not. My engagement dinner is hereby happening tonight, and it's going to be great, blood on the kitchen floor or not.” She looks at Bellamy with a raised brow, as if daring him to argue. He holds his hands up in surrender, and she claps her hands together gleefully. “Great. Wear something nice, dinner's at seven.”

 

“Should I bring anything?”

 

“Besides yourself?” she asks sarcastically, and he glares. She smiles, looking like she's thinking hard about something, before she lets her gaze shift momentarily to his side, to where she's most likely thinking Clarke is. “You think of something,” she smirks, winking and turning around to link an arm through Lincoln's, and they disappear down the hall.

 

Where Bellamy is bad at lying, Octavia handles things with the subtlety of a brick wall.

 

“She's gonna be the death of me,” he mumbles to himself, shaking his head as they walk out of the hospital for the second time that day.

 

“She loves you,” Clarke declares with a laugh, following him down the street and back to the parking lot.

 

He waits until they're in the car before he answers, and they talk about nothing the rest of the way home, taking their time. Clarke seems nervous, and he can't really say he blames her, all things considered. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that Octavia meant for Clarke to join in on the engagement party, dead girl or not, and he can't imagine what must be going through Clarke's head.

 

For one, she won't be able to interact with anyone but him, and maybe his sister to some extent.

 

“What should I even wear?” she asks him once they're home, her voice carrying through the apartment from inside her bedroom. She quiets for a moment before sticking her head out her door. “Can I even change clothes?” she wonders aloud. Bellamy turns from the couch and peers over the back of it, allowing himself to really pay attention to what she's wearing for the first time. Her T-shirt is short sleeved and blue, and she's wearing black jeans and flats, and her hair is more golden than yellow in the afternoon light, curling over her shoulders in soft waves. It's what she's worn every day since they met, and to him it looks like _her_. He clears his throat uncomfortably.

 

She looks alive, but she's not, and it scares him that he can't tell the difference.

 

“You look perfect just like that,” he says gruffly, turning his attention back to the History Channel, trying his hardest to focus on the documentary about the crusades unfolding before him.

 

Clarke plops down next to him.

 

“I should stay here.”

 

“Don't be silly, Clarke, you were invited. Octavia would have my head if she found out I didn't bring you.”

 

“She can't even see me. Couldn't you, you know, just fake it?”

 

He turns his head to look at her. “You know, I would, but I'd rather keep the imaginary friend situation to a minimum.” She rolls her eyes at him, unimpressed.

 

“She'll never know.”

 

“Did you not catch the part about me not being able to lie?”

 

“It's not lying, it's just... pretending,” she says, and he catches the way she lingers on that last word. He feels it slip into place like a puzzle piece.

 

“What are you so scared of?” he asks gently, reaching out and letting his hand hover over her knee, knowing that the gesture is probably too intimate for two people who've only known each other for a little less than a week. She stares at his hand.

 

“That,” she says, voice barely above a whisper, and he moves to take his hand back, but she lets her own hover over his before he can pull it away. Their skin is overlapping somewhere between the back of his hand and the center of her palm, but he can't bring himself to care, because she's looking at him with bright blue eyes that are glassed over, and she looks so scared. “I like you,” she continues, and his heart leaps into his throat, “but it's not like this is easy for me. I'm dead, Bellamy, I can disappear at any time. It's too late for me to make friends with anyone.”

 

“You mean it's too late for you to start living your life,” he corrects, hating the feeling of bitterness that's spreading through his chest. He knows it's his fault, knows that he had let himself get carried away and pretend it was all real, that he probably shouldn't have told O no matter how many times she would have asked. Clarke is a person, a _dead_ person, and her time is over.

 

“I may not have had much of a life outside the hospital, but it was mine,” she snaps, “and now it's over, and I'm stuck here.”

 

“So stay or go, I won't stop you,” he says, and hates that he actually means it. Just a little.

 

She yanks her hand back as though burned.

 

“Fine.”

 

“Fine.”

 

She shoves herself off the couch and heads for the bedroom, before changing her mind and turning sharply on her heel, going straight back to him. She swings her hand through his arm, and he can practically feel it this time.

 

“What the hell?” he yells, flinching back and getting on his feet, watching the fury in her face light up.

 

“If I don't get to decide when I leave this world, then neither do you, Bellamy,” she hisses, and there's something underneath all the layers of frustration that finds her endearing as she stands there, chin raised high and staring him down despite him being at least half a head taller than her.

 

“I'm not trying to make you leave, Clarke,” he says harshly, crossing his arms.

 

“Then stop acting like you can decide what's best for me. You know nothing about me at all.”

 

It's like a kick to the stomach, and he throws his hands into the air, feeling himself about to blow.

 

“You're right, I don't. I don't really know you, I never will, and that really sucks, okay? I really wanted to get to know you, and that's the dream I'm chasing right now.”

 

“You can't do that, Bellamy, I'm _not there!_ ”

 

“ _I KNOW!_ ” he roars, seeing her take a step back. “You don't have to repeat it like a broken record, all right? I know that you're not here, I know that you're dead, I know that I'm talking to myself like some stupid fucking shizophrenic lunatic, but I don't care!”

 

He feels his chest heaving like he's a man drowning, and Clarke looks at him with wide eyes while he forces himself to calm down, clenching his fists and trying to keep himself from hitting something.

 

“Look, I really don't know why you're still here, but I for one am determined to make the best of it, and I want your last days on Earth to be as peaceful as they can be before you disappear. I'm done spending this one arguing with you.”

 

With that, he turns and walks into the studio that is his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. He switches out his ratty T-shirt with a button down that Octavia got him a year ago, the one he hates but she loves, and forces himself to take a deep breath before going back outside the living room.

 

Clarke's gone.

 

He collects his keys, shoes, and that awful champagne he got from Miller two months ago, trying not to let his fear get to him. She's disappeared while she was upset once before, she'll be back again in no time. Right?

 

He can't help but call her name a few times before he leaves the apartment, just to make sure. There's no reply, but a deafening silence instead, haunting him out the door and down the stairs, out into the open where his shitty car is parked on the street. Octavia and Lincoln live on the other side of town, and on any other day he probably would have skipped out on driving, but he is way too emotionally drained to be able to appreciate the scenery around him. It's better to let the mechanical beast do the work for him.

 

And then, like always, Clarke is there right beside him, appearing at the edge of his vision.

 

For some reason she doesn't scare him this time. Perhaps it's because he already knew on some level that she would appear. Regardless, he wants to tell her that she really doesn't have an obligation to come with him, but then he feels her hand ghosting over his, and he forces himself not to stiffen at the contact, or lack thereof.

 

He starts the car.

 

In the end, the apologies they speak on the way there don't surprise him, but the ridiculous demonstration of a badly written who's who sitcom episode at their destination does.

 

He won't pretend that there isn't a tense air between them as he drives, but they've both decided to let it be for now, and there is no doubt in his mind that they'll pick up their discussion/fight/whatever when they get home later tonight, even after the heartfelt truce to reach for normalcy. He fiddles with the car radio, she hums along to some stupid top ten track, and they park the car at the house, walking side by side to the door.

 

Of course it all basically goes to shit the second they step inside.

 

“Bell!” Octavia shrieks and wraps her arms around him, hugging him close. “Is she here?” she whispers into his ear, and he rolls his eyes, whispering back.

 

“Yes, O, she's here, calm down.” She smirks, casting a blink-and-you'll-miss-it glance in Clarke's direction before grabbing his hand and dragging him inside.

 

“You're the last to arrive, nerd,” she declares, coming to a stop inside the kitchen. Lincoln is standing by the stove, leaning his weight on one hand against the countertop, his injured arm holding a spoon that he's using to stir some kind of sauce. He looks up with a smile, getting up and walking over, arms already outstretched in a hug.

 

“Hey man,” he says, clapping Bellamy on the back, then turning his attention to Bellamy's side when he's done. “Hi, Clarke,” he adds quietly while retreating, and Bellamy just about has a heart attack.

 

Clarke is staring at Lincoln.

 

“You can see me?” she croaks out, while Bellamy glares at Octavia.

 

“You told him?”

 

“Told my husband to be that your dead girlfriend saved his life? Of course I did, you idiot,” she scoffs, taking the salad bowl and walking over, depositing it in his hands. “Unclench and go say hi to Rae and her new boyfriend. And no, of course _they_ don't know, Bellamy, I'm not stupid,” she adds when she sees his mouth open. He snaps it shut audibly, forcing himself to breathe calmly through his nose, mumbling something about Clarke not being his girlfriend.

 

They're off to a great start, it seems.

 

Pretending he doesn't see Clarke's face fall while he leaves her standing awkwardly to the side in the kitchen is harder than it sounds, and he practically stares at the bowl in his hands until he's pretty sure he's developed heat vision, placing it on the dining table in the living room and turning his attention to the couple on the couch with their backs turned to him. Raven's bum leg is laying across her boyfriend's lap, his arms hanging lazily over it. She looks up with a grin at his arrival.

 

“Hey loser,” she says happily, sending him a salute. He flips her off.

 

“Hey yourself,” he grins and walks closer, praying to God and all his angels that he doesn't look as exhausted and worried as he feels. “Who's your friend?”

 

Blonde Dude turns to look up at him from his seat on the couch.

 

“Dead Mom?” he asks with a raised eyebrow, and Raven sits up straighter.

 

“You guys know each other?”

 

“Met at the bar,” Bellamy says, feeling more than a little dazed as he offers his hand. Blonde Dude carefully moves Raven's leg and gets up from the couch, shaking hands with him. “Bellamy,” he says then, remembering that they're not on a first name basis yet.

 

“Wick,” Blonde Dude says, and Bellamy feels something icy roll down his spine. It sounds a little too familiar.

 

“Kyle?” Clarke asks from somewhere behind him, and Bellamy drops Wick's hand, turning to see his dead friend staring straight at her long lost brother like she can't quite believe it's really him.

 

“Kyle?” Bellamy repeats incredulously, turning back to Wick, who in turn looks at him like he's crazy.

 

“Your name is Kyle?” Raven snorts, sounding like she's trying desperately to reign in a laugh. Wick turns his glare on her.

 

“It's _Wick_ ,” he says pointedly. “Only my sister Clarke gets to call me that.”

 

“Wait, Clarke? As in Griffin?”

 

“You know her?” the boys chorus. Raven nods, eyebrow raised.

 

“We went to middle school ages ago. What is happening here?” Bellamy turns again, to see Clarke's eyes widen almost comically, and she basically zooms past him to stand beside her friend at the couch.

 

“Raven? What happened to your leg?”

 

“She can't hear you,” Bellamy says, flinching when he realises that he's more or less just outed himself now. Wick understandably takes a step back.

 

“Raven can hear me just fine,” he asks slowly.

 

“Dinner's ready,” Octavia announces, coming in from the kitchen, carrying a basket of garlic bread, Lincoln hot at his heels with the saucepan. They take in the sight of Bellamy and Wick standing a few feet apart, Raven on the couch, all three wearing identical expressions of confusion, and Bellamy can feel another headache coming on. The hostess raises an eyebrow. “I feel like I missed something.”

 

“The nerd is acting weird,” Raven says promptly, and he nearly sinks to the floor then and there, wishing the ground would basically open up and swallow him whole. The attention he's getting is much more than he bargained for. The thing is, he knows his sister like the back of his hand, and he can practically feel the consequences of her impending actions happening already. Still, he turns to her, shaking his head fractionally at her. _Don't you dare._

 

Clarke is even waving her hands frantically beside him, as if that would make a difference.

 

“Oh, it's probably because he talks to Clarke. He's been living at her place, and they've been hanging out for about a week now.”

 

This is it.

 

This is how he dies.

 

“I need to sit down,” he declares, immediately walking towards the table, feeling five pairs of eyes boring holes into him. Slowly, they follow suit, placing themselves around the table in an orderly and quiet fashion.

 

Dinner immediately becomes far too tense for his liking.

 

For starters, Wick keeps glancing towards Bellamy from across the table, and the empty chair beside him that Octavia had somehow thought was actually a good idea to set up (from the beginning, like what the hell).

 

Clarke is tense beside Bellamy, staring at her empty plate, looking deep in thought, and he wants to comfort her, but at the same time he doesn't want to freak everyone out. Raven is quiet beside Wick, but her movements are surprisingly loose and relaxed, as if this isn't the most awkward engagement dinner of all time. As if her world hasn't just been turned on its head. She looks to Bellamy when she feels her eyes on him, raising an eyebrow as she pops a piece of bread into her mouth. Lincoln and O each sit at the head of the table, casting glances at each other and him every now and then, seeming to have an unspoken conversation going on.

 

A fork suddenly clangs to the plate, shattering the silence.

 

“So, are you a medium or something?” Wick asks, crossing his arms in front of him. “Or a psychic or whatever?”

 

Bellamy blinks.

 

“No.”

 

“Want to explain to me why you think you can talk to my sister then?”

 

“I'm actually curious about that too,” Raven says, ignoring the glare she gets from her boyfriend. Bellamy looks at Clarke, who shrugs.

 

“It can't get any worse,” is all she says. He wants to roll his eyes at her, but he's in enough trouble as it is, communicating with a dead person at the dinner table while surrounded by his friends and family, and he's honest to God wondering if this is what insanity feels like.

 

“We don't know yet,” he says, feeling heat flare up in his cheeks. It sounds like a pathetic excuse, and Wick scoffs, _convenient,_ probably coming to the same conclusion.

 

“You actually think she's here with us?”

 

“She's here,” Lincoln says, and Bellamy gets a split second urge to kiss him in grattitude, stubble and all. Until he opens his mouth again, that is. “I can feel her.”

 

“Wait, what?”

 

“Her energy,” Lincoln clarifies with a smile, and there is a resulting silence so deafening that Bellamy thinks the world has stopped. He glares at his imminent brother-in-law.

 

“You didn't think to tell me you could sense her?”

 

“And freak you out more?” Lincoln counters gently, which, he's right, but still. Bellamy looks at Octavia incredulously, but she just shrugs as if to say that she didn't know either. To be fair, Lincoln had never kept it secret that he is definitely a spiritual type of person, but it would have been nice to know that he apparently went a bit beyond that. He snorts without mirth, about to respond when the implications of the statement hits him like a freight train.

 

“Wait, dead people have energy?”

 

“She's not dead yet,” Wick says, or rather snaps, looking at Bellamy as though preparing to go in for the kill if he's going to state otherwise. Bellamy, in turn, gapes at him.

 

“She's not?”

 

“I'm not?” Clarke repeats, sounding so unbearably hopeful that he can't help but turn to look at her. She cast him a sparing glance, then looks back to her brother, her eyes shining with determination. “Ask him about Christmas.” He stares, and she sends a would-be smack through his arm, repeating her question desperately. “Ask him what he got for Christmas last year.”

 

Confused, he does as told, watching how Wick's eyes go from hard and cold to searching and questioning, his gaze landing on the empty chair.

 

“She sent me a Barbie. I gave her a G.I. Joe the Christmas before I left.”

 

“This is too weird,” Raven states, but she doesn't sound as put out as Bellamy thought she might. More curious, like there is a definite scientific reason for all this, and she's preparing herself to get to the bottom of it. Hell, maybe this is probably her definition of Disneyland. “I can't believe you didn't tell me Clarke was your sister,” she says then, her eyes narrowing at Wick.

 

“You don't tell the girl of your dreams about your coma sister when you've only been dating for a week.”

 

“You also don't tell her she's the girl of your dreams just yet, you dork,” she says fondly, reaching out and smacking him upside down the head. Octavia fails to surpress a giggle turned cough.

 

“Clarke's in a coma?” Bellamy hears himself ask, staring at Wick, seeing him nod, a shadow crossing over his face.

 

“For about a month. Had to find out through one of the nurses, because my dear _mom_ wasn't sure if I already knew,” he says, spitting out the word mom like it's more of a poison than a term of endearment or a family title. Clarke winces as though slapped.

 

“Kyle, she's scared and not acting rationally. It's dad all over again.”

 

Bellamy clears his throat, wondering how best to go about relaying the message. “Your mom is probably under a lot of stress from all this,” he finally says, and the stare Wick gives him in return convinces him that he's definitely related to Clarke. He's half expecting his hair to be on fire.

 

“Is that why Clarke's still here?” Octavia pipes up from her end of the table, causing everyone to turn their attention to her. She looks to Lincoln. “I mean, could her mother be the unfinished business she needs to fix before she passes over or whatever?”

 

“Even if she was, that doesn't explain why Bellamy is the only one that sees her,” he points out, brow furrowing as he turns his attention to Clarke. “The only thing I can think of is that they had a connection from before.”

 

“But then shouldn't I be able to see her to?” Wick asks sceptically, and Raven places a comforting hand on his shoulder. At least it starts out that way until she suddenly stiffens, making Wick grunt as her grip tightens.

 

“It's love.”

 

For the first time in a week, Bellamy is not the craziest person in the room.

 

“It makes sense,” Raven continues, ignoring the stares she's getting, removing her hand from Wick's shoulder, only to wave it towards Bellamy and Clarke across the table while she talks. “You two have obviously developed some sort of feelings for each other, and that's why she's still holding on. It's gotta be.”

 

“That really _doesn't_ make sense, Raven. I've never met Clarke before in my life, so why would I be able to see her to begin with?”

 

“Well, maybe it's because I may or may not have planned on setting you two up on a date for a while.”

 

Where Bellamy and Clarke look somewhat horrified at this revelation, Octavia is the complete opposite, almost jumping out of her chair, a giddy expression on her face. Bellamy suddenly doesn't know who he wants to hit more: his sister, who is turning into a kid hyped up on sugar, or the smug female across from him, with whom he's seriously reconsidering his relationship. Raven just smirks.

 

“I've been meaning to get in contact for years! Clarke is a cool chick, and you'd be great for each other. And apparently fate thinks so too, so it's really out of my hands.”

 

She really drives the point home by holding out her hands an dusting them off.

 

All Bellamy can really do at this point is open and close his mouth like a damn fish, feeling every question in his head on the tip of his tongue, stumbling over each other to get there first. It's all too much information at once, but at the same time he wants more. Is that really how it all adds up? In fear of his head exploding, he starts small, picking out the first relevant question he can latch on to.

 

“Did they say how Clarke got hurt?” he asks.

 

“Car accident,” Wick replies, eyes flickering between him and Raven. “Run of the mill drunk driver.”

 

“I don't remember that,” Clarke mumbles, shaking her head. Bellamy repeats, and the way Wick's expressions softens is almost heartbreaking.

 

“That's probably a good thing.”

 

“So you believe it?” Octavia asks softly, eyes going between him and Bellamy. Wick seems to hesitate, but finally nods, mouth set in a thin line. He doesn't know if that line is good or bad.

 

“Maybe.”

 

“Good,” she smiles, before standing up. “Dessert?”

 

 

~*~

 

 

It feels weird to have the secret of Clarke Griffin finally out in the open, to say the least. The rest of the evening is spent in a cloud of awkward, and all he really wants to do is go home and go back to pretending it's all normal; Something he can't do when everyone is trying to include the dead girl in the conversation through various clumsy means.

 

He doesn't even properly remember getting home, his body on automatic while he's saying goodbye, getting in the car, driving home, walking up the stairs, locking the front door. It's all a haze now.

  


“Well, goodnight,” he says hoarsely, rubbing the back of his neck. He offers her a smile from his position in front of the doorway to his room, vaguely remembering that they technically still have a fight going on. She looks up at him from her own spot near her bedroom, and he sees grattitude shining in her eyes. Apparently, she wants to kick his ass just as much as he wants to kick hers at the moment.

 

“Night, Bell,” she says softly, walking through her closed door and out of sight.

 

He has to remind himself to move, closing his own door and heading towards the futon. He flops onto his stomach, feeling the springs bouncing beneath him as he presses his face deep into his pillow, momentarily considering just suffocating himself. His day has been a blur of emotions and information, and he's surprised he hasn't somehow exploded into tiny bits by now.

 

Clarke is alive.

 

It's a lot to take in after a week of thinking he's totally bonkers, but at the same time it feels like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. She's in a coma, but she's alive. And somehow, possibly through Raven's meddling, he can see her. Does fate really work like that? In his opinion, philosophy has ironically never been his strong suit, and to be perfectly honest Raven's explanation sounds more far fetched than anything.

 

And yet he can't come up with a better explanation.

 

It tugs at something inside of him, that tiny thing that he had felt a couple of days ago. If he's not careful, it won't be long before that feeling erupts into flames and consumes him, and he's not certain whether that will be a good thing or not just yet. As it is, there are two important factors to consider. Firstly, Clarke being alive doesn't mean that she's all right. If she ever wakes up again, brain damage could be possible. He doesn't really see that happening, considering how functional she's being right now, but never say never. Secondly, just because she's alive doesn't mean she wants to spend time with him. It's a given that they live together for now, but if the day comes when she wakes, she definitely has the authority to kick him out. Just because they're forced on each other doesn't have to mean that they will live with it forever.

 

It keeps him up half the night, tossing and turning, until he finally curses it all and gets out of bed, stumbling out his room and towards the kitchen in his boxers and T-shirt. Unsurprisingly, Clarke is sitting on the couch, staring at the TV.

 

“Anything good on?” he asks, causing Clarke to give him one of her looks.

 

“Totally. I'm really into this show called Dark Screen.”

 

He can't help the chuckle that escapes him, shaking his head before taking a big gulp of milk before putting back the container and shutting the fridge. He stumbles back into the living room and plops down next to her, grabbing the remote and turning on the TV, and they channel surf for a while until they stumble upon a late night rerun of some sitcom. For a few minutes, there's nothing but the bad jokes and ridiculous laugh track underlining the silence between them. Of course Clarke decides to break it.

 

“Does it bother you that I'm alive?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Does it bother-”

 

“No, I heard you the first time, I just... Why would that bother me?”

 

She sighs at that, crossing her legs underneath her and gripping her feet with her hands, looking down. “Well, I don't exactly think it's going to be easy if I wake up again. For starters, will you still live here? Would you rather I was braindead or just simply dead, so you could have peace?”

 

His throat is suddenly very dry.

 

“Is this really happening?” he croaks, staring at her unwavering expression. It's one thing for him to have those thoughts, but seeing her eyebrow raised in a perfect bow, mouth set in a thin line, he would have pegged her as confident and calm, except for the tone she had been using. She is absolutely terrified of what's going to happen, just as much as he is, and that somehow scares him even more than before. “Why would I want you dead? Don't get me wrong, this apartment is amazing, but it's not worth killing over.”

 

That, at least, get's a snort out of her, and he releases a breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. He sees her relax herself a little, leaning back against the back of the couch, sinking into the cushion behind her, closing her eyes. He spends a split second afraid that she's going to fall through it like it's just another invisible barrier.

 

“I like you,” he says then, finally saying what's been on his mind all day.

 

She jerks up and stares at him, lips parted, and despite her reaction he deems it good that he's throwing caution to the wind, diving in head first. It doesn't necessarily feel fantastic, but then again, it probably shouldn't. This is more than just a simple case of boy and girl, and he knows he needs to tread carefully, but he just _needs_ to let her know. “I don't know how much I like you yet, but I do know that I would be sad if you died. So, you know, don't do that.”

 

For a long time, they look at each other. The audience laughs at another joke.

 

“I like you too,” she whispers, worrying her lip before changing the subject, “but will I even remember you if I wake up? Amnesia is pretty common for coma patients.” He can feel the pit in his stomach opening up again, wondering why he hadn't considered that. She might not remember him. How could she remember him when she's not even conscious?

 

“You will,” he shrugs, trying to give off a confident smirk. She huffs out a laugh, probably because he looks more like a cocky idiot than anything. Still, her face softens, and she nods.

 

“I hope so,” she mutters, smiling at him, and he feels his heart shatter in turn. She's so young, so beautiful, and she doesn't deserve this horrible limbo she's being subjected to. He wants to make it end, make her better, just so he can hold her hand. Hell, all he really wants to do is let her hit him for once.

 

Mostly he wants to kiss her.

 

Judging by her face, she's not opposed.

 

The way she looks at him has him leaning a little closer, resting his side against the back of the couch. She shifts a little towards him, hesitantly moving her hand towards his, and God, this is way too soon, but he can't stop himself. He moves his own hand a little closer, already knowing that he won't be able to feel her touch the way he wants to, not caring in the slightest if their skin will overlap. This is their moment, and no technicality is going to ruin it. He moves closer still, and he sees her eyes close as she leans all the way in-

 

Until a late night commercial startles them, its narrator blasting their voice through the speakers with such intensity that Clarke actually squeaks and draws back hurriedly, while he jerks back in surprise.

 

He glares at the TV.

 

“Fucking hate commercials,” he grumbles, hearing her giggle beside him. He shoots a smile her way before grabbing the remote, resolutely turning off the TV. She's still smiling when he turns back to face her, but it's a little tenser now, the moment between them gone. It's for the best, and he hates that he knows it.

 

“You should get some sleep.”

 

“I know,” he says with an eyeroll, but gets up from the couch anyway. He knows her well enough by now to realise that she will heckle him until he does as told. It's oddly comforting to know that people are looking after him, even in death. He turns his head to offer her a good night and a smile when he catches sight of it. There is a frown overtaking her face, and her hand is shaking as she holds it up in front of her. He can almost see through it.

 

She's fading.

 

Shit.

 

“Bellamy...” she whispers, and he snaps out of it immediately. Her wide eyes follow him as he bolts from the room to grab his jeans. He manages to wrestle one leg into them while moving, hopping on the other and nearly tripping as he reemerges in front of her. She looks terrified, and he can feel his heart making its way out of his ribcage, beating double time. The world is oddly tilted, and he realises just in time that he's on his way to falling, hand shooting out and grabbing a hold of the couch before he can topple over.

 

“Get in the car,” he nearly shouts, buttoning his jeans and grabbing his keys and phone, seeing Clarke hurry out of the room and through the front door. He curses something foul when his fingers won't stop shaking as he taps in Octavia's number.

 

“Bell, what the fuck, it's tw-”

 

“She's fading,” he interrupts quickly, practically storming down the stairs. The ground feels harsher under his feet, and he realises that he's forgotten to put on shoes. He comes to a stop in front of the car and looks down, seeing Darth Vader socks glaring back at him.

 

There's a shuffling at the other end of the line, and then Lincoln is there, calm and collected, a stark contrast against a horrified Bellamy opening the door and getting behind the wheel with his phone wedged between his shoulder and his ear. “What's happening?”

 

“Clarke's dying.”

 

He doesn't know how he knows, but he _knows._

 

He briefly shoots a glance at Clarke, seeing her breathing heavily while she stares ahead of her, and he gets the ridiculous urge to reach out and hold her like he's always wanted, in case this really is goodbye.

 

“Get to the hospital,” he hears Lincoln saying gently over the noise in the background. It sounds like they're getting out of bed. “They need to know what's happening.”

 

He hangs up without replying, knowing that they'll understand, turning the key in the ignition and praying that he will get there in time. The occasional glances her way tell him that she's bouncing her leg up and down, wringing her hands in front of her, staring at them every once in a while. He notices that her right hand is almost completely see-through, and he floors it.

 

They make it to the hospital in record time, and he bursts inside, rushing up to the nurses' station, vaguely aware that he should probably go somewhere else, but he can't afford to think now. Thankfully, nurse Harper is working tonight, her eyes widening as she takes in the sight of him out of breath and disheveled.

 

“Clarke's in trouble,” he gets out through halted breaths, letting himself double over and placing his hands on his knees, fighting against dry heaving in the middle of the hall.

 

“I'm not sure what you-”

 

“Please,” he croaks, forcing himself to stand up straight, looking desperately at her. “I can't lose her.”

 

She's about to reply when everything goes to hell.

 

Clarke groans behind him, and he swings around to find her doubled over in pain, clutching at her head. He doesn't give it a second thought as he steps towards her, only to be damn near trampled by Dr Griffin and a couple of nurses, rushing past him and down the hall and into a room at the far end. His heart practically stops in his chest when he realises how close she's been all along, but there's no time to mull it over.

 

“Clarke,” he nearly shouts, not caring how insane he looks at this point.

 

“I'm coding,” she rasps, voice somehow harsh and soft all at once, pushed through gritted teeth. She groans again, her hands fisting in her hair. “Oh god.”

 

He stares, torn between trying to embrace her and running to her room to see her. His hands are shaking horribly.

 

She sinks to the ground, panting and curling in on himself. She's nearly see through.

 

“Go,” she urges him, raising her head to look at him through the tears in her eyes, and he can't for the life of him explain how, but he feels his feet move at her words like he's been let loose from invisible restraints, practically barreling down the hall despite nurse Harper's protests echoing behind him. He makes it to the door and slams it open, seeing Clarke's mother in the middle of preparing CPR, and his breath catches in his throat, catching her attention.

 

“Get him out of here,” she orders harshly, her hands never stopping their frantic moving. She's got her hands on the paddles while someone opens Clarke's gown unceremoniously, and he feels his throat tighten while they place the electrodes on her chest, and then he's yelling protests and fighting against the male nurse in front of him and nurse Harper behind him while there is the sound of Dr. Griffin yelling over the commotion.

 

Clarke jolts from the bed with the electric current, body slamming back against the bed, still unconscious.

 

He can't be sure if the sound drowning out everything else is the ringing in his ears or the flat lining of her heart.

 

She jolts again, and he feels some of the fight go out of him when she still doesn't react, nurse Harper's fingers tightly gripping his arms, cutting off some of the circulation. Surprisingly, the male nurse is easing his grip a little, and they watch Clarke's body react a third time to the tune of electricity.

 

He nearly cries when her heart starts beating again.

 

It's as if all the sounds in the world is suddenly roaring back in his ears with renewed vigour, and he has to force himself to stay in place to prevent him from throwing himself on Clarke. Her mother practically throws the paddles from her hands, grabbing her daughters face and frantically whispering her name over and over, until she finally opens her eyes.

 

He can spot the blue in her eyes all the way from the door, and it's the most beautiful colour he's ever seen.

 

“Mom?” she croaks, voice rusty with disuse, but he knows he could still recognise it as hers anywhere. Dr. Griffin chokes on a relieved laugh, hands never stopping as they pet her face, her hair, her cheeks.

 

“Hi, baby.”

 

“What's wrong?” Clarke mumbles, closing her eyes momentarily, and he feels an irrational fear sweep over him. She's going to fall asleep again, slip away and die, and he is immediately moving towards her again while the nurses try to push him back. Mother and daughter catch sight of him struggling, and it's breaking his heart to see that Clarke looks more confused than anything. He already knows what's wrong, has somehow known it would happen before she even woke up, but he can't bring himself to face it. Not yet. He just got her back.

 

It can't happen like this.

 

He waits for the confusion on her face to fade, feeling his heart plummet when it doesn't. Finally, slowly, he lets himself calm down and stops fighting against the hands preventing him from stepping further into the room. Dr. Griffin is watching him curiously, gaze going back and forth between him and Clarke, settling on him finally. The sympathy swimming in them is more than he can handle, and he finds himself giving her a curt nod, dejectedly turning on his heel and shoving past nurse Harper and out into the hall.

 

It's over.

 

She doesn't remember him.

 

He begins his long trek down the hallway, the world swimming before him. Clarke doesn't remember him. He'd expected it in a way, because of course she wouldn't. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. The body and the mind are two vastly different things, and the girl he had been spending a week with, the girl he _cared for_ had been of he mind, but not the conscious kind. He's lucky if he's even a speck of a dream in her life now.

 

“Bellamy, wait.”

 

He stops in his tracks a few feet from the exit, clenching his hands momentarily, a muscle in his jaw twitching. He vaguely realises that he should be more surprised that she managed to remember his name, but all he registers as he turns is Clarke's mother walking towards him somewhat briskly, her face an open book. He nearly starts when he sees that beyond the happiness for her daughter, she's actually worried about him.

 

“It's fine,” he says before she can even open her mouth. She shakes her head gently at him.

 

“Bellamy, these things take time. Amnesia is not uncommon in a coma pat-”

 

“I know, she told me,” he says, cutting her off. Her brow furrows.

 

“She told you?”

 

He shakes his head more at himself than her, not even bothering to cover up his mistake at this point. “It doesn't matter. It's fine, Dr. Griffin. Really,” he assures her, offering a tight grimace of a smile, turning around and walking out the entrance before she can stop him.

 

It's fine.

 

It's all fine.

 

 

~*~

 

 

Miller doesn't question him when Bellamy calls him early in the morning, asking him for his help moving out of the apartment.

 

 

~*~

 

 

“Bellamy Blake, you better be dressed up and ready to go!”

 

Confused, he turns his head to find the source of the noise, seeing Raven make her way inside Miller's apartment, slamming the door after her. He turns his attention to Miller, who shrugs before resuming smashing the buttons on the controller. Bellamy moves from his spot on the couch and makes room for the menace that is Raven Reyes, going to sit on a chair beside Miller instead. Instead of sitting, she goes to stand in front of him, glaring down.

 

“What?” he asks, trying not to shrink under her terrifying gaze.

 

There's a reason why they only went on one date.

 

“Why are you not ready?” she says, her perfect eyebrow raised, lips turning into a disapproving frown as she rests her weight on her good leg and crosses her arms. He is wracking his brain by now for possible things to say in this situation that won't get him castrated, unfortunately coming up with none.

 

“Ready for what?”

 

If possible, her eyebrow goes even higher.

 

“You forgot, didn't you?” she accuses him, and it's like a light bulb flickers above his head. He'd definitely forgotten, but in his defense that had been because he thought she was kidding. He tells her as much, and she uncrosses her arms, only to grab his pillow from the couch and smack him in the face with it. “Of course I wasn't kidding, you moron.”

 

“How was I supposed to know?”

 

“Was my request followed by some sort of punch line?”

 

“If I remember correctly, it wasn't even a request to begin with.”

 

“Then why aren't you dressed yet!?” she nearly shrieks, and he rolls his eyes, turning his head to his friend. Miller is trying his hardest not to laugh and failing miserably, making poor Nathan Drake slip and fall to his death in the middle of the ice cave. The laugh turns into a groan, and he throws the controller to Bellamy, but Raven gets to it before he can.

 

“Dude, not cool,” Bellamy sighs.

 

“I'll give it back to Miller when you're dressed and ready to leave.”

 

“Get out,” Miller says promptly, and Bellamy glares at him. Miller only smirks and shrugs, getting up from the couch and moving into the kitchen to get something from the fridge. Possibly, to give them some privacy as well. Sighing, Bellamy turns his attention back to her.

 

“Why is this blind date so important?”

 

“Because I spent a long time setting it up, and you're a miserable dick.”

 

“Am not.” He refuses to admit that he's pouting as he says it. He already knows Raven isn't fooled.

 

“Look, you're like my bro, and I love you-”

 

“Gross.”

 

“-and because you're like my bro, I get to help you out with your happiness.”

 

He's sure if he rolls his eyes again they'll stay permanently looking upwards. “You're aware that I already have a sister, right? One that I _didn't_ make out with, if I might add.”

 

“Please don't bring that up again, for both our sakes,” Raven shudders, and he can't help the chuckle that escapes him. It's not that she wasn't a good kisser. It's just that she's really right about them being siblings in a casual sense, and he wants the memory of her lips on his erased from his brain as soon as possible, and for them to never speak of it ever again. Ever.

 

He swallows uncomfortably when he's reminded of a wonderful girl with hair like gold.

 

“I don't think so Raven,” he says, trying to go for casual. “Last time didn't go so well.”

 

He doesn't want to hate her when she looks at him with such a softness in her eyes, but he still does. A little. She sighs and sits down next to him, laying the controller on the coffee table and taking one of her hands in this. “I'm sorry,” she says, causing his head to snap up from where he'd previously been very intently focused on the floor. An apology had been the last thing he'd expected from her. As if she's reading his mind, she continues, “and don't ask me to repeat myself, because that is never happening.” He scoffs and nods, and she smiles a little, squeezing his hand.

 

They're quiet for a few seconds before she speaks again.

 

“It's too bad it didn't work out. You would have been good for each other.”

 

He shrugs, not wanting to confirm or deny. They hadn't even had a proper chance to test it out, not really. There was always a looming cloud hanging over them and everything they did, reminding them that they were doomed to fail. He's not sure anyone can come back from that.

 

“I don't know, Raven...”

 

“Please just do this for me, Bellamy. And for Octavia. I promise this is the last one. We'll never set you up again.” He looks at her, tempted to scoff again. Raven and O backing down from sticking their noses in people's love lives? Impossible. “Really,” she promises, letting go of his hand to let her finger slide in an x over her heart, holding her hand up. He snorts and manages a smile, knowing he's already lost. Bellamy is nothing if not loyal to his family.

 

He's also a bit of a pushover, but he'll never admit that to anyone.

 

Raven smirks widely and lets Miller have the controller when the latter magically reappears as if on cue, and the two continue torturing Drake while Bellamy changes. Fifteen minutes later, they're driving casually towards his favourite restaurant, Raven humming casually along to the radio and ocassionally slapping his leg when she notices him fidgeting. She lets him off in the front of the restaurant, throwing him a smirk and hollering at him to have fun before she speeds off like a bat out of hell. In any other situation, he would have smiled at that. Instead he takes a deep breath before opening the door and walking inside, giving his name to the waitress coming up to him. Apparently, his date has already arived, and he feels himself tense up as they walk towards a table in the back.

 

His heart nearly stops when he recognises her.

 

“Hi, Bellamy,” she breathes, smiling nervously, moving to get out of her seat. He manages to get himself under control before he's imitated a fish for too long, closing his mouth and practically plopping down into his chair, staring at her.

 

“Hi,” he says somewhat dumbly, and she smiles a little wider, a small laugh escaping her as she sits back down.

 

“I know, it's weird.”

 

“No, it's... Well, yeah,” he admits, clearing his throat and trying not to stare. She's really here.

 

He might kill Raven later. He's not sure yet.

 

There's a waiter at the table before they can say much else thankfully, and they give a quick order, waiting until they're alone to start up the conversation.

 

“I thought you didn-”

 

“I'm so sorry I-”

 

They stare awkwardly at each other for a second, and he finds himself snorting out a laugh. “You go first,” he says, and she smiles widely, although there's a definitely underlying tension in her features.

 

“I just wanted to say I'm sorry that I don't remember you.” He tries not to let himself stiffen too much at that, his mood taking a slight dive when he sees Clarke take notice.

 

“Is there anything you remember from the accident?” he finds himself asking, trying his hardest not to hit himself after. Way to go, Blake. To her credit, she doens't bristle or otherwise shy away from the topic, taking a moment to inhale through her nose as though gathering courage.

 

“I don't even remember all of what happened before the accident, honestly,” she admits, a little colour rising in her cheeks. He frowns, which she takes as a sign to continue. “The days tend to fade into each other when you work at a hospital, so it's a bit hard for me to distinguish what happened when lately. My mom and Octavia both said our friendship was fairly new, but still.”

 

“Oh right,” he nods, latching onto his sister as a conversational topic, in order for him to ignore the hollow feeling in his stomach that's back, “O said she managed to give you your key back.”

 

“She did,” Clarke nods, “Thank you.”

 

“You're welcome.”

 

The waiter arrives with food, drink and a dash of impeccable timing.

 

“How are you doing?” he asks after a minute or so, catching her in the middle of a bite of chicken alfredo. He somehow manages not to blush while watching her chew and swallow before she answers.

 

“I'm on sick leave for another week. Doctor's orders,” she adds with a scoff, and he resists the urge to roll his eyes, opting for a smile instead. If he were Dr. Griffin, he'd probably force her to take at least three weeks off instead of two after spending so long in a coma, but to each their own. “How about you? How are you doing with all this?”

 

“Me? I'm fine,” he answers a little too quickly. Sure enough, Clarke raises an eyebrow, looking like she wants to smack his arm. He represses a shudder at the familiarity. “Really, Clarke. I'm fine.”

 

“Dropping off the face of the Earth is not fine,” she argues, sounding a little put out. He nods; He should definitely have seen that coming. To Clarke, there are two things about Bellamy that she knows. One: that he used to live in her apartment while she was in a coma. Two: that they supposedly met before the accident, and that they were friends. Maybe even good friends.

 

Regardless of time, a friend doesn't ignore his apartment buddy for a week after she wakes up from a coma.

 

That's just plain rude.

 

“I'm sorry,” he says, feeling the heat flare up in his cheeks, fork twirling around the noodles on his plate absentmindedly. He knows he's been a dick this past week for dodging any attempt of contact from her, starting with Octavia and Lincoln passing on the message that they had got in contact with Wick, and Clarke had been asking about the 'dark haired buy with the freckles that suddenly left'. That, in turn, had evolved into Octavia being the apartment key holder, until Clarke had been discharged a couple of days ago, and he had nearly spent two hours on the phone getting chewed out by his sister after said key was picked up.

 

“I didn't really know how to process all this,” he admits somewhat sheepishly. She nods.

 

“I can understand that.”

 

He nods back, turning his attention back to his food, and they spend another few minutes quietly eating. He notices her looking still unsure of himself, like there's something she wants to say, but he doesn't ask her to speak her mind. She'll tell him when she's ready.

 

“I think I do remember you,” she finally says, nearly causing him to choke on his drink. He manages not to sputter as he sets down the glass, staring at her.

 

“You do?” he asks hoarsely, watching her blush as she nods.

 

“Kind of. Like I said, the days kind of flow together, so I don't really know what's what,” she says, and he nods, “but I... I feel like I know you. Like I really _know_ you.” She pauses, a wondering look across crossing her face. “I feel like maybe we met in a dream.”

 

He feels something dangerous in his chest flare up. Something hopeful that makes him see stars.

 

“Maybe we did.”

 

 

~*~

 

 

Four months later, he moves back into the apartment.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Alright so I wrote this over the course of about a week, so if it's a bit choppy and abrupt in places, that's why. I have no beta, so I take full responsibility for any spelling mistakes and/or plot holes. Also, writing this was strangely cathartic. When your old friend dies, you apparently write a Just Like Heaven AU because logic. I promise the next thing will have more fluff.


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